I, safe beyond the stars, shall know it not,
Nor die again to think on 't. Men, weep not
That ye lack sons, but weep when your wives bear them!
Alb. I'll vouch for him, your grace.
Pem. Thanks, Albemarle.
Rich. Will you, my kindest father, say a word
To bring me to the graces of the king?
Pem. Ay, son.
Rich. Now, sir?
Pem. Nay, I'm not dying yet,